That Kind Of Freak
by ImNotAPsychopath
Summary: Dean is struggling to control how he feels about his brother. He doesn't want to be that kind of freak after all. Written with my Cas/Gabe who wrote Sam on this one.


The first time it happens, he dismisses it as an anomaly, an artifact of the chaos and confusion of seeing Sam again for the first time in two years. Anyone would have noticed how tall and lean and muscled that Sam had gotten if they were wrestling him in the dark, and the last time they'd seen the monolith that had entered the room had been when he was shorter than they were, and weighed half as much. Totally normal. Nothing to worry about. Just a natural observation that his baby brother wasn't such a baby anymore. The surge of jealousy that he'd felt when Jess had arrived on the scene had been a little bit more difficult to explain but really, he hadn't seen his brother in two years. TWO years. The brother he had _helped to raise_. Who was this woman coming in and acting like she had a claim to him? She didn't even _know_ him. So really, the jealousy wasn't all that surprising either, all things considered. It didn't mean a thing. And Sam could shut his fat mouth if he was going to tease him _every time_ Dean insisted he go into the bathroom when he changes. Because Christ. He didn't need to look at his baby brother half naked across the room every morning and every night, okay? Privacy. That's what bathrooms are for, anyway.

The next time it happens, they're in east Texas. It's hot as hell outside and he's practically melting as he walks into the room to begin with. And there's Sam. In a fucking towel. Practically begging Dean to look at him. And okay, so he sneaks a sideways glance. Mostly, he's just making sure Sam didn't see him putting the itch powder into his jeans. He doesn't really know what to do with the fact that he has to think about a wendigo to keep himself from going half hard at the sight of Sam standing there. Did he mention he was _only wearing a towel?_ So he doesn't think about it. Because there is absolutely _no way_ that he noticed the jut of Sam's hip or the way the drops of water on his still damp body were running slowly through the cuts of Sam's abs—and Christ. WHEN had he put on that muscle, anyway? He was still just a kid dammit—until they disappeared beneath the towel. And he definitely, DEFINITELY did not think of following that same trail with his tongue and removing the damn towel so he could explore what was underneath. And even if he did, the thoughts are obviously some sort of delusion, brought on by the ridiculous heat. Probably Sam had also slipped some sort of aphrodisiac into his drink as one of his pranks. Either way, he hadn't really meant to think them. It had been outside of his control. Because that is not the kind of thing that one thinks about their baby brother and yes, he knows that they are not normal people but he refuses to be THAT kind of freak, okay. Still, it makes complete and total sense that from now on he makes Sam put a sock on the door if he's going to take a shower while Dean's out. Privacy. Is that too much to ask for?

The third time it happens, Dean really can't be bothered to care anymore. Sam's been infected with the Croatoan virus and they've long since been left alone. The way he has it figured, Sam's dead in a few hours and he's dead shortly thereafter. Or the other way around. He doesn't really care at this point, he's just pretty damn sure that neither one of them are getting out of there alive. All he's got left is keeping Sam's spirits up until he turns. So they're playing cards and Sam is sitting on the floor, leaned back against the wall, legs all stretched out in front of him and smiling because he's about to win. They're about to die but Sam's still giddy because he's finally beat Dean at a game of gin. Dean's long since forgotten about the card game. He's just staring at Sam, wondering why he never got a fucking break and wishing he could take it all away, every last bit of it—the pain that haunts Sam's eyes when he thinks about Jessica, the dark shadow that has followed Sam his whole life, would still follow him if they somehow managed to get out of this alive, the misguided guilt he carries about not killing his own damn father so John wouldn't have had to sell his soul to save Dean. He'd take it all, in a second, if it means that Sam doesn't have to carry the burden. Jesus, Sam is the only light in Dean's entire life. What had Sam ever done to deserve any of this? Sam's too focused on the card game to notice that Dean's been staring just a little too long. Or if he does notice, he doesn't say anything and Dean might allow himself to wonder a little bit about that, too as long as he's indulging in some wishful thinking, anyway. "Gin!" Sam exclaims triumphantly, throwing down his cards and flashing Dean a smile that Dean would give his right arm just to keep on seeing every day of his life. Dean tosses down his own cards and fakes disgust.

"You got lucky," he says. "I was distracted." And it's true. Sam's legs are fucking distracting. So is his smile and his stupid perfect straight teeth. Dean coughs. He needs to focus. Dead by tomorrow or not, he can't take care of Sam if all he is thinking about is taking Sam. And he's really got to be some kind of sick asshole anyway, to be thinking about Sam like that _at all_, let alone _here_, right now. "How are you feeling, anyway?" he asks because he's clearly thinking about the virus infecting his brother and _not _the curve of Sam's lips or what else his tongue, which is brushing over them absently, wetting them slightly, might be good at doing.

"Fine," Sam says with a shrug. "Tired I guess, but I still feel like me, if that's what you're asking."

Dean stands up and looks around the room. He finds some blankets in a cupboard and fashions them into a makeshift bed. It's not much, but they've slept on worse. "Here," he says gruffly. "Lay down. It's not going to do you any good to stay awake, anyway."

"No pillow," Sam complains.

Dean growls. "Find your own damn pillow," he says, sliding into a sitting position beside the blankets. And Sam. Sam, God love him or hate him, gives him a sly grin and proceeds to lay his head in Dean's lap.

"Found one," he says. Dean's trying to talk himself into shoving Sam out of his lap and moving to the other side of the room when Sam looks up at him, eyes suddenly all unguarded and terrified and Dean just can't. Can't get up. Can't walk away. And fuck if he doesn't want to reassure Sam, tell him the only way he knows how that he'll never be alone. His lips are soft and slightly wet from where his tongue has just swept over them and Dean's not superhuman. He can no sooner stop himself from wanting to kiss those lips until Sam begs for mercy than he can stop Sam from turning into a monster in a few more hours. His breath catches in his throat and he swallows hard, trying to control his reaction but his dick is feeling heavy between his legs and he's afraid that if he doesn't move soon, Sam's going to know _exactly_ how fucked up his big brother is. Nearly every cell in his body is telling him to run, to get the hell away from Sam but there's a tiny voice in his head whispering that neither of them are going to see tomorrow anyway so why not just take this moment? And so he stays, his fingers threading into Sam's hair as he hums "Hey Jude" softly. He stays there until long after Sam is asleep, well beyond the point when his legs are falling asleep and his muscles are screaming at him to move and he's losing his own fight to sleep, and at long last he allows himself to acknowledge what he's really known since they first started. The thoughts he's been having about Sam aren't incidental. And they aren't going to go away. He leans his head back against the wall, breathing evenly, hand on the gun but not falling asleep. At least he only has to live with the knowledge of his perversion for the rest of the night.

The trouble is, Sam doesn't hulk out. He wakes up the next morning, same overgrown Sam he's always been. The bastard doesn't even develop so much as a cough. As a result, Dean doesn't die either and all things considered, he counts that as a win. The problem is, now that he's allowed himself to think about it, _permitted himself to feel it _without recrimination, there's no going back to when he could pretend it was all innocent and the feelings weren't real. Fuck it all, anyway. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Sam doesn't understand what went wrong or, more so, _when _it went wrong. No, he was supposed to have gone and turned into something close to a rage monster, but he didn't. But the bigger problem was, he didn't know_ why_ exactly he viewed his big brother the way he did. But now, he just let it go. He went with it. Didn't fight it. What was the point? He was supposed to not have made it through the night, so what was letting go going to hurt? Now, he wished he almost hadn't. It's been years now, Sam remembers, since he's realized his feelings. He doesn't remember the date, the year, but it's been _years_. He admired Dean for everything he was. The big brother he was. Always watching out for Sam. Always bring him in close and telling him the same sweet, soft, song of promises of they'll make it through another day. Or, at least, Sam will. What wasn't to love? But Sam always knew that Dean would never feel the same. Or if he did, he'd never admit it. He was the master of hiding his feelings. But it'd work for only a bit. Then finally, finally, he started to see reactions out of his brother when he'd walk around half dressed. Dean would overreact or hide away shouting something about privacy. Sam would purposefully do everything he did, just to see Dean's reaction. The jealousy. The soft gentleness. The staring. As if he didn't know? It was all too obvious. So when would Dean come to his senses?

Finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore. Sam was doing this on purpose. He had to be. He shut Sam's laptop, narrowly avoiding his brother's fingers. "You. Pay attention to me. Now." Sam looked up with innocent eyes. He knew what Dean was talking about. But, why not just play innocent? Dean sat on Sam's lap. "Now, Sam." Sam suppressed everything now, for some odd reason. It took all his willpower for him to _control_ his dick and not play into Dean's will. Dean grinned when he felt Sam shift a bit. "Uncomfortable, Sammy?"

"Get off, Dean." he ground out.

"Why?" Dean gave a shit-eating grin.

"This is awkward. And you're putting my leg to sleep." he managed to lie. If he didn't move Dean _now_ he was going to see that his little brother was lying. And Sam _really_ didn't need Dean's smug, _I got you now_ face.

"Liar." Dean gave the exact face that Sam didn't want.

Sam groaned. "Okay. What do you want? I'm listening. Loud and clear." This wasn't going exactly how he hoped.

"You're want what I want." Dean grinned. Sam paused for a moment. This is _exactly_ what he's been wanting to hear. But it sounded so foreign. Dean gave a sly smirk. "So . . . You gonna make your move?"

Sam watched Dean's lips move smoothly. He watched them, hungrily, and pounced. He tackled Dean backwards with all the strength he held inside him, but still careful he didn't hurt Dean. They toppled over onto the floor. Sam pressed the heels of his hands into Dean's shoulders so he'd stay. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his body heating up like a candle.

Dean flushed darkly before grinning. "This is exactly what I want." He murmured before kissing Sam hotly, capturing Sam's face in his hands as he wrapped his legs around Sam's hips.

Sam gave in, resting his body on top of Dean's supporting himself by leaning on his elbows that were on the sides of Dean's head. He rested is forehead against Dean's. "What's wrong with us?" Sam asked with a hint of pain edging through.

Dean flinched. "What do you mean?"

"We shouldn't be here. Like this. We shouldn't do these things… Or feel this way…" Sam whispered, tracing Dean's face with his thumbs.

Dean winced and clenched his jaw. "Fine. We can stop."

"I wouldn't want to for the world." Sam whispered and started kissing his face roughly. Neck, arms, face, ears, any skin that wasn't clothed.

Dean moaned softly and kissed him hotly again. "Let's get this party started then." He whispered.

"I'm going to feel that in the morning." Sam groaned. They were both on the bed, sweaty and tuckered out. Both were covered in bite marks, bruises and hickies.

"I'm feeling it now." Dean whined.

Sam chuckled before rolling over. "Bath?" he asked, nudging Dean with his nose.

Dean burrowed in his arms. "Not yet."

"It'll make you feel better." Sam purred.

"No." Dean pouted.

"Fine. Later." Sam pouted back.

Dean smiled and kissed him sweetly. "I just wanted to snuggle with you." He buried his nose in Sam's neck. "Especially with how sexy you smell right now."

Sam let out a barking laugh. "I smell like sex. And you."

"Exactly." Dean winked.

Sam pulled Dean close into him. He breathed in Dean. He breathed in everything. He could smell the past hour on him and it poured over warmly like a waterfall. "You… Are… Incredible."

Dean laughed. "I thought I was a jerk?"

Sam chuckled lowly. "Sometimes."

"Bitch." Dean muttered. "In more ways than one." He grinned.

"Shuttup." Sam muttered, chin on Dean's head. Dean chuckled before closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep. Sam smiled, content, before following the suit.


End file.
